If You Only Knew
by After Today
Summary: Post-FANG. Letters are no substitution for conversation, but it might be their only option for now. Rated T for very mild language. Spoilers for FANG; don't say I didn't warn you.
1. If You Only Knew

Dear Fang.

No, you know what? You don't even get the _dear. _I have no intention of bothering with formalities, because, let me tell you, I am _pissed. _And since you don't have the decency, the _tact _to do anything besides leave a freaking _letter _behind and expect that to make it okay…well, you get a letter in return.

I hate you, you traitorous, two-timing, deceitful _liar. _After all that we've been through, you just up and _left. _And things were finally getting back to normal, too. My life was in no immediate danger (but, let me tell you, the next time I see your face again, _yours will be in danger_), but you decided that it would be _best for everyone _to _leave?_

Since when has running away been the answer to any of our numerous problems? Hmm? Let's play out the scenarios, shall we? "Oh, no, I have wings. This sucks. Bye!" "Oh, no, Angel got taken by the whitecoats. Hmm, nothing we can do. We should save our own skins and get as far away as we can!" "Oh, no, I'm in another life-and-death fight. Hmm, I wonder if I get up and walk away, will he follow me? Let's find out! I'm outta here!"

But we didn't leave. Because we're fighters, you moron. And now, thanks to you, the flock is down one of the best fighters that we have.

Don't you know how hard I fought to keep you next to me? Don't you know how horrified I was at the thought of losing you forever? You had to know. You can't tell me that you could talk to me, look at me, _kiss me _without knowing. And you left anyways! I knew you were cold, but never did I think you were heartless!

Maybe you're not far away at all. Maybe you're watching me melt down here, just to get your kicks. Maybe you're thinking, _Hah! What a clueless idiot she is! _Maybe you just wanted to see how far the Great Max could fall. I wouldn't put it past you, now.

Just in case you're wondering, just in case you care, Nudge hasn't stopped crying since you left. Angel stares out the window all day long, trying to find in her mind so she can tell you to come home. Iggy has taken your place as the angry one and now punches holes in the walls. Gazzy just looks confused all the time.

And me? Well, I switch between hating you and your stupid guts with everything I have…

And then I miss you, and it feels like you might as well have slashed out my heart and taken it with you.

I love you, you ignorant twit. What, did I not tell you that enough? Because it's true. I love you. And it makes it so, so, so much harder to wake up in the mornings, and have that brief moment of blissful ignorance before I remember:

_Fang is gone._

And each morning is like a tiny little paper cut in the most painful, inconvenient places. Have you ever heard of "death by a thousand paper cuts"? That's essentially what it feels like to be me, in addition to the gaping wound that appeared when you left.

God, it's hard to say that. "When you left." Because saying it means I have to recognize that it happened, it actually happened, and I don't think I'm at that point yet. Nudge says I need "closure," whatever the hell that's supposed to mean, and apparently writing a pointless letter that will never get sent because I don't know where the hell to find you will give me "closure."

I don't want closure, anyways. I don't want to close this chapter. Not yet. I wasn't done yet. I am nowhere near done loving you. I don't want to forget you. I want to wake up in the mornings and hear you breathing before you say a single word, creeping up on me in that weird, incredibly annoying way you do. I keep feeling ghosts around here. I can feel you touching me still. Maybe I'm finally going crazy. If I'm not, it won't take very long.

But, if I'm crazy, then maybe I can trick myself into thinking you're still here. You said you cared about me too much, and that's why you left. Maybe that wasn't a direct statement, but it was implied. Were you scared for me…or for you? Because I'm a big girl. I can take care of myself. But I need you here to keep me sane while I'm doing just that. You know my weaknesses. You knew the one thing that could hurt me the most. And you knew that my weakness…is you. It's always been you. It's always been you, you idiot!

Now, I'm too distracted to notice if anything is off. If a baddie approached me on the street and smacked me upside the head, I probably would never have noticed before blacking out.

You'll be the death of me, Fang. But you were also my life.

I hope you're happy, by the way. Now, apparently, I have _feelings. _Which means I'm a huge corn-master. Yuck. But it's not like I can say any of this to your face, so every sappy AND murderous thought I've had since you've been gone is being recorded here. Like it or not.

…I hope that it was worth it, Fang. I hope that, wherever you are, you're happy. Honestly. If I couldn't do that much for you, then maybe you'll find it somewhere else. Somewhere safe, and stable, and where you can finally think. But I hope that you think about me. That's the one thing that's keeping me from falling apart right now – the idea that you miss me as much as I miss you.

I burned your letter, by the way. It was refreshing. Because I know a good majority of it was bullshit. 20 years is way too freakin' long for me to wait. And I hope you know that I have a total disregard for your wishes. I don't care if you don't want to be found. I've placed locating you at the top of my priority list. If that means bumping saving the world down a notch or two, well, I blame you. You said it yourself, in that now-reduced-to-mere-ashes letter of yours: _You can't say no to me._

That's the plan, buddy-boy.

It's 4:03, and I can't sleep. It's the only time I can think. I wish I could fall asleep, actually, because I can see you in my dreams. And that's the only thing that's keeping me alive. But sleep is also when the tears drip down my face, and when I can't stop them. I'll drown in my tears tonight, and I would still do it to see you.

Oh. The water drops on this paper? Gazzy had a squirt gun. They're totally not teardrop spots or anything.

I love you, Fang.

**MAX.**


	2. If I Drown Tonight

Dear Max.

I don't like this. I don't like addressing letters to you, when I should be just talking straight to your face. Or, even better, holding you and whispering into your ear.

Eh, talk about corny. Bah. It's not like you'll read this, anyways. Not anytime soon, when you'll care that I'm being totally mushy and crap.

Since I know how stubborn you are, and how little you give up without a fight, I've made myself scarce. I didn't waste any time in getting as far away as I could. And I hated myself with every stroke of this goddamn wings on my back.

I…didn't want to leave. You have to believe me. It was, and is, and will always be the single hardest thing I have ever done in my life, however long it may be. But I can't protect you anymore. In fact, I think I may be putting you in more danger as it is.

I had to leave.

I know you don't understand. I don't really understand it, myself. But what I do know is that, physically and emotionally, I'm stronger than you. Whoa, probably a good thing I'm safely on the other side of this pen right now… If I actually said that to you, you might kill me. But you want to kill me anyways, so I guess it doesn't matter.

Anyway.

Please, please don't think I left because I don't love you. I do. More than you'll ever understand. I think I've loved you longer than you've loved me…and believe me, I know you've loved me for a long time. You're not that hard to figure out, Max. Especially for me. I know you too well.

I haven't slept at all since I've been gone. Yeah, I know, it's unhealthy to be flying when I'm exhausted and all that bull. It's not like either of us really cares about my health. But I know the second I let my defenses down and sleep, you'll be there, and I'll just crack, and I'll turn around and head straight back for you.

We were brought up to act on instinct. Kill or be killed. But we're all getting older now. Fifteen, huh? And with those years comes some form of smarts, I guess, because now I'm not thinking so much with my gut as I am with my head. If my gut had more say in this, he would tell me I was crazy and that you're the best thing that ever happened to me, and if I had any brains left in my skull I would zoom back and beg you to forgive me.

_And he would be right._

Maybe I'm confusing my gut with my heart in this little analogy. But that's not the point. The point is, I'm no good for you, Max. Not right now. Right now, I have to think of what's best for you…and it's not me.

See, the thing is, I can't stand to see you get hurt. Not physically, and not in any other way. I know the thought of losing me killed you. And maybe that makes me an ass for leaving of my own free will. But I thought if I went away, and you knew that I was gone, and you had time to deal with that, it would be better than just seeing me spontaneously die one day, if that's what's going to happen.

I miss you, Max. But right now, day is breaking, and I should get a move on if I want to cover a good bit of ground today. Believe me, I'll be writing more of these letters. The only way I can really deal with this is writing to you, pretending you can read what I'm saying. I'll save them all for you, for when we meet up. At the cave at the northernmost point of Lake Mead. The hawk cave. I'll be there.

The scary thing is, I have no idea if you'll be there, too.

**FANG.**


	3. If I Can Dream

Fang.

(I'm still not giving you the satisfaction of a "dear.")

Well, it's now Day 7. Seven long, long, ridiculously long days since you deserted me – I mean, us.

Nothing much has changed. Well, Nudge has started eating again. But she eats like a bird now, no pun intended. (Okay, pun totally intended. And maybe I'm getting my infamous sense of humor back. But I don't think so. Not yet.) Gazzy has taken to wearing black. I don't know if he's trying to be you, or if he's trying to look emo. Either way, it's not him. Iggy hasn't cooked for as long as the rest of us haven't eaten.

It's still hard to breathe. Impossible, really. Every time I inhale, I expect you to be there, sharing my breath. And then I'm holding it, not daring to breathe out, because I _know _that when my lungs can't take it anymore and I exhale, you'll still be gone. I'm up to three minutes and thirty-seven seconds, if you're interested. Huh, funny. I used to be able to go for longer than that.

Did you know that Angel can't hold her breath if she's not underwater? It's true. I guess anytime she decides she doesn't need the conventional oxygen the rest of us do, she should find a water source and practice her freaky ways of living there. But I timed her yesterday. She could only hold her breath in for about a minute.

Sadly, that was the most entertainment we've had all week. You would think we would be drowning ourselves with music, television, and the Internet to distract ourselves from you. But you took our computer, so that's kind of out, and besides, it would be entirely too painful to see your blog bookmarked for all to see. TV is stupid, and music is irrelevant.

Basically, we're all moping around and holding on to the barest of hopes that you'll pop out from behind a corner somewhere, grinning like an idiot, and say, "Surprise! I never left at all!"

But you've never been one to pull pranks like that, or grin like an idiot. So to say it's not likely is the understatement of the decade. We can hope, though, can't we?

To tell you the truth…I don't. Hope, that is. You kind of killed that. I know you're gone.

That doesn't mean I can't find you.

See, what everyone else doesn't know is that I'm already planning. I know you can't fly directly across the Pacific, can't cross that big ocean all by yourself in time to outrun me (which I know you're trying to do). So that means you're going west. You forget, Fang, that every time you planned a route, _I was there. _I know what you're thinking when you look out at the horizon and plan out your day.

I know that you're trying to get as far away from me as possible. And that kills me, but I'm working on getting past it.

For what it's worth, I disagree with you, Fang. You're not dangerous. You don't hurt people, you protect them. You're the balancing half of the power around here. It's like the government class we took at that awful school in Virginia. You know the one I'm talking about. One branch of government makes the laws, and another approves them. I make the rules, and you tell me if they're ridiculous or not. And then I veto your opinion, enforce my rules anyway, and everyone is happy in the end.

Like I've said so many times before, I'm not running a democracy here. It's a Maxocracy. And you're Vice President. Though that title carries more personal benefits than political.

Oh. Total and Akila are really the only ones who are semi-happy around here, by the way. Not that they knew about you right away. They went on their "honeymoon" after the wedding, and just got back a couple of days ago. Total cried for you a little bit, got over it, and started frolicking around outside in the grass with his new, eh, bride. I wish I were kidding. But don't take their lack of interest personally. Love can do crazy things to a person. Or a dog. Or a pair of bird kids.

My feathers are falling out. I wonder if I'm molting (ew). Or maybe my wings know that something's wrong, and they're finally catching up with the rest of my body and falling to pieces…

We're staying in a hotel, by the way. My mom offered to let us stay with her, but I refused. I need some time, and some space, and as much as I love my mom and Ella, I have a feeling they would be "checking in on me" every fifteen minutes or so to make sure I wasn't reenacting that one scene on the beach, where I attempted to dig the microchip embedded beneath my skin out of my arm with a sharp shell. You remember.

But I wouldn't do that. I may be miserable, but I'm determined as hell. You're not getting rid of me that easily.

I keep thinking how I'll react when I see you again, whenever that is. And I honestly have no clue. Even the thought makes my mind kind of twisted. I don't know whether I'll cry or slap you so hard that the imprint of my hand will never leave the side of your pie-face. Maybe I'll do both.

I keep thinking this is a nightmare. Like it's all a drug-induced dream, or maybe some sick test that those jerks at the school are playing in my mind. And if it is, I'm going to kick someone's butt. If it's not…well, I'm still going to kick someone's butt. That's just how I roll.

(You know, this letter thing is actually kind of… therapeutic, though I would never admit that to anyone else.)

It's Day 7.

Breathe in, breathe out.

And repeat.

**MAX.**


	4. If You Were Here

Dear Max.

It's still weird putting the "dear" in front of your name. Because no one in their right minds would ever call you "dear" to your face, and it's just another reminder that I'm so far away. Those reminders are everywhere, though.

Where I am, geographically, there are _tons _of girls who look like you, sans wings. Well, no one's an exact carbon copy, but it seems that every one has a piece of you – the height, the hair, the eyes, the scars. But they walk by me, chatting on their cell phones or flipping their hair, and it hits me. You're not here. You're not going to turn a corner and smile at me, or roll your eyes, or smack me on the head, all the things that I've become so used to.

If you could actually read this, I bet you would slap me upside the head. What right do I have to miss you, anyways? I was the one who left, not the one who was left.

…Well. Since you're not going to read this anytime soon, I'll tell you where I am. I'm in Nice, Paris, and it's tourist season. I blend right in. No one gives me a second glance. There's a tiny Internet café right by the shore, and it's about one in the afternoon. It's perfect. I wish you were here. I can almost see you sitting across the table from me, looking out with that stick-up-the-butt expression at Angel and Gazzy and Nudge, who would be playing in the water, and Iggy, who would be sitting on the shoreline building some amazing sand sculpture like only Iggy can do. And then some fruity French waiter would come and serve you some croissants or something with some god-awful French accent, and you would look at him like he was the hottest thing since toaster ovens, and I would want to punch his lights out just for existing.

Does that make me delusional?

I mean, you would know better than anybody…

I'm kidding. But honestly, I'm not sure about anything anymore. I mean, what person in his right mind gets up and walks away from the best thing in the world without a bomb strapped to his chest or a gun to his head?

I was right about the dreams, by the way. No matter how hard I try, I can't keep you out of them. And it's driving me abso-freaking-lutely crazy. I can only hope to whatever god cares anymore that this isn't how it's going to be for the next 19 years, 357 days, and 3.5 hours.

Yes, I'm counting. The grand total is 7295.5. An eternity.

I'm sorry, my Max.

**FANG.**

**A/N: So. In case you haven't noticed thus far, Fang's letters are notably shorter than Max's. It doesn't suit him to be very talkative, anyways. Max, on the other hand..**

**Reviews are nice. :) But only if you reeeally want to.**


	5. If I Could

Fang.

We're on the move.

Okay, so, I didn't tell anybody where, exactly, we're going. Because I don't really know, myself. I'm following my instincts here. It's basically a giant game of tag, only you got a week-long head start, and we have no clue where in the world is Fang the Idiot.

I haven't bothered to tell the little kids (and Iggy, who would resent being called "little" if he could read this) what our objective is in this mission. Angel knows, but that's only because I can't stop the mind-reading thing. And I have a feeling that Nudge and Gazzy and Iggy know, too. Or at least they can guess as much. It's not like my mind, or anybody's mind, for that matter, has been focused on anything else since you've been gone.

Which makes you kind of an attention whore, actually. Unintentional or otherwise.

But anywho. I told you I was going to find you. Or die trying. Well, that's a little overboard. If anyone's dying here, it's going to be you. And then I'll bring you back and make you promise that you'll never leave again, and this time, maybe you'll mean it.

You know what I'm talking about, right? The era of Itex and Ari? You couldn't handle either one, so your solution was to…drum roll, please… run away. Shocker.

But you came back that time. And you remember how freaking emotional that reunion was. You hugged me, damn it! There were _tears _in your eyes! And, no, I'm not stupid, and I'm not falling for the excuses you fed me later as to why your eyes were shining. But that's not the important part.

The important part is that you _promised. _You _promised _me that you would never leave me, ever again. And I believed you. You were the last person in the world I could trust. The only person.

And you lied to me.

God, this is entirely too painful. Given the choice between losing you and cutting off a wing or an arm or other limb, I would be the first one to hand over a saw and bleed to death. It would still be easier than this.

Eh. I guess I should, eventually, acknowledge Dylan's existence in one of these letters. Fang, he's not a bad kid. I don't trust him for nothin', because you can see where that's gotten me before, but you didn't have to feel threatened by him. Because I will never feel the same way as I did – _do _– for you for anyone else. Ever. That's a promise.

I mean, yeah, the running away thing is a MAJOR speed bump in this relationship. But they have counseling for that, right? Maybe we can find someone who specializes in emotional trauma as a result of the Wings 'N' Things Program.

…But back to Dylan. He's been pretty considerate, unlike _some people _(in case you can't tell, I'm referring to you, you idiot), and switching between giving all of us our space and pitching in to help out with our regular duties. This trip is really hard on him, you know. He only just learned how to fly. He gets tired pretty easily – even though he's Mister Macho, he hasn't quite built up the stamina levels required for this sort of lifestyle. I'm torn between forcing him to fly faster for longer periods of time, and taking it easy on him and making more frequent stops.

In truth, I would rather stick the kids somewhere safe, maybe with my mom, and just make this trip by myself. I can fly faster (thanks, spontaneous genetic mutations!) and I wouldn't have to pretend like everything is all right, because my cheeks are starting to hurt from fake-smiling too much to make everyone think that I'm not falling to pieces.

But then Angel would be right. And that would just about kill me. When she kicked me out of the flock (still a sore subject between us, by the way, but we're putting off dealing with the whole mutinous-traitor thing until we find you) she told me that you and me were more focused on each other than the benefit of the entire flock. I didn't think it was true, at the time… until this. And now, I'm only concentrating on you, and sometimes I'm distracted and don't hear if Nudge complains that she's hungry, or notice if Dylan gets a contrived look on his face and starts to drop in the air a little bit. But leaving them behind would only be worse, wouldn't it? I would be leaving them, too. And I can't do that to them. They're my family. And if, on the off chance I don't find you, they're the only family I have.

I hate crying. I really, really do. It's bothersome, and it's such a weak, flim-flam thing to do. It's useless! Crying gets you nowhere. All it does is make your nose run and your eyes burn and your face turn all splotchy, and then you're a mess along with being completely and totally without a clue about what to do. But now, it's like, I can't help it. See what you've done to me? You've reduced me to a quivering blob of jell-o. I try not to bawl in front of the others, but when we land and rest for a while, I'll make some excuse to get away by myself for a few minutes, and I'll fly away and just blubber.

Yeah. So. I'm a total pansy now, apparently.

Or maybe I'm just not as strong as I thought I was. Maybe I'm completely worthless without you. The scars on my arms, my legs, my _wings…_ they don't really mean anything. I'm trying to be strong here. If not for my own sake, then for Angel's, and Gasser's, and Nudge's, and Iggy's. Even Dylan's.

Total and Akila opted to stay behind. Don't be too disappointed if we show up without them. It was best for everyone. Iggy and I couldn't possibly carry Akila for long distances, and besides, they're still in the lovey-dovey stage. Ick. Like I said, best for everyone for them to stay behind. My mom, whom we paid one last visit to before blowing that joint, was more than happy to take them in. I guess that's a perk of having a veterinarian for a mom.

So the members of our cozy little group are dropping like flies. It's a lot quieter without all of you here. It's entirely too quiet. It wreaks havoc on my already-thin nerves. I can hear my thoughts too clearly, and it just makes me depressed.

If I have it my way (and you know I always do), I'll see you soon, Fang.

**MAX.**


	6. If I Made A Change

Dear Max.

I'm keeping the "dear" because I can't think of anything better to put there. Creativity isn't my strong suit.

Considering these letters are kind of a record of what happens between the last time I saw you and the next time I'll see you, I guess it would be a good idea for me to talk about what happened when I "died."

Um, not that there's much to say. I didn't have a video montage flashing in my head, pictures of you and me and everybody else flicking like a flipbook in my mind. My life didn't flash before my eyes. I was conscious one second, and the next, everything was totally black.

No, dying wasn't the bad part. The bad part was waking up. The gasping for air, and the throbbing where the needle full of adrenaline pierced right above my heart, and the hysterical (not in the typical ha-ha way, either) look on your face…it was a lot to take in. It almost killed me right over again.

That's exactly what I'm trying to prevent by doing this. If I die out here, by myself, it'll be ten thousand times better than dying with you standing right over me, screaming at me to wake up. I did hear you, Max. Even though it was totally dark, I remember hearing your voice. It's kind of hard to miss, as I'm sure you know.

I couldn't bear it. And I couldn't do it again if I had anything to live for now, anyways. So, in a way, yeah. It's totally selfish for me to want to be on my own. But I don't think a repeat performance of that would do any of us any good.

Hmm. I've had a lot of time to think. Can you tell? It's almost kind of nice. Nudge isn't pestering me for candy bars, Gazzy isn't singing Weird Al songs, Iggy isn't prancing around the world dropping pipe bombs…

You're not someplace near, yelling or laughing or kissing.

All right. I lied. It's incredibly boring and lonely. I _thought _I wanted to be all alone. I do. Well, as much as anyone can _want _to be alone. But I've gotten so used to you guys and your mannerisms, it's hard for me to get accustomed to being on my own. I hate it.

It's easier for me to get into hostels by myself, though. I'm sure flags would rise if we were all together, trying to smuggle six kids and two dogs into one room. No one gives me a second glance. Which is a good thing, so far. The story is, I'm an American high school graduate (I'm tall enough to pull off eighteen), and I'm backpacking overseas before college. Good plan, right? Gives me an excuse for packing light and everything. And since I'm staying in youth hostels, I've met some pretty cool people. There are a couple of kids staying in the room across the hall from me, and they're _exactly _like the scientists from Antarctica, totally eco-conscious and into saving the world, albeit a different method than the one you've been using. I'm also pretty sure they don't have wings. But they're really smart, totally capable, and they have connections.

Like I said earlier, I've had a lot of time to think. And I have a plan.

It's crazy. It's dodgy.

But that's never stopped me – or any of us, for that matter – before.

**FANG.**


	7. If I Lay Here

Fang.

According to Iggy's watch (that I stole), it's 3:21 a.m.  
As in, the morning.  
No, it's not even _morning _yet. I don't count it unless the sun is up.

I can't sleep again. I'm worrying too much. And I know what you're thinking – "Max? The great, infallible, perfect Max, worrying? No! Never!" But it's true. There's too much on my mind to sleep…peacefully, anyways.

Truthfully? I have no idea what our next step is. Right now, we're in a little hideout that we fashioned on the shore in South Carolina. I know you're not in the states anymore. I don't really know how, exactly, you got across the Atlantic, but we can't fly that huge distance east over water, where there's no place to make a crash-landing if we have to. So Angel's, ahem, booking us a plane tomorrow morning, with Nudge's technical help.

But where do we start?

I'm trying to remember every single thing you've ever mentioned to me. Places you might want to go, or where there were people hurting and you wanted to help. You've always been more philanthropic than I have, even though you'll never acknowledge it.

Last night, I made a trip to a little library nearby and logged onto one of the computers there. For the first time in I don't even know how long, I brought myself to check your blog, hoping you left clues for me there.

It was literally painful. It made my stomach knot up to go through each one of your posts, especially the ones where you were talking about me. But there was nothing recent, nothing revealing even a tiny bit about where in the world you are. What good is that thing if I can't keep tabs on you?

Oh, by the way. Your fan girls are worried about you. You might want to post soon to satiate them.

Where are you, Fang? Why did you have to go so far away? Am I that awful that you couldn't waste any time getting as far away from me as fast as you could go?

Yeah, yeah, I know what you would say if you were here. You would basically recite your stupid letter from memory, telling me that it wasn't my fault, and that you were trying to protect me. But that's just it. You're not here. So, by default, I get to make my assumptions until you come back here and prove me wrong, and I can ignore you and just lean against your chest and be happy that you're with me and not take it for granted to be so close to you again.

God, I miss you.

I've been thinking a lot lately. I've had time to. And you want to know what I think? I think that you know I'm perfectly capable of defending myself. I've been in a crap-ton of bad situations before, and physically, mentally, I was always able to come out okay.

The only part that I really need help with protecting is the emotional one.

You were the only one who I trusted enough to have that particular part of me. And you pretty much blew it to bits. But it didn't break off completely and wither away. It splintered, and now I can't get the slivers of memories out.

Is this stupid, Fang? This entire thing, I mean. Going after you, hunting you down like an animal. You're smart. You're _really_ smart. And good at making yourself disappear. I could probably search for the next twenty years and never find you. The world is a big place.

But I can't just sit around, waiting for you. I'd go absolutely bonkers. I have to _try. _I think I can trick my psyche into being okay if I can convince myself that, if I at least try, I'll have done all I can do.

The rest is up to you.

I know you're good at being by yourself. But you want a purpose. And if that means banding together with your own merry gang of freaks…you might forget me in the process.

Just so we're clear, I'll never forget you. I may hate you, miss you, love you as time goes on, but I'll never ever stop thinking about you. You're too important. And I can just _see_ that smirk on your face, but it's true.

Writing these letters is not easy for me, by the way. It's hard to unscramble the thoughts in my head and make them coherent enough to jot down. There's so much I want to tell you, but I've never been very patient, and holding this pen for hours on end makes my hand ache and cramp. Yes, _hours. _That's how long I have to sit here and try to pick and choose my words. I'm not very good at it. Sometimes I bypass other things – sleeping, for example, or eating – to write to you. And someday, when I see you again, I'll be able to hand you this gigantic stack of paper, detailing every part of my life that you missed out on, and then maybe you'll understand.

Either way, neither of us can go back now. Just another breath, just another step. But I can't help feeling that we're taking gigantic steps in different directions.

Not a good sentiment in the least.

We're heading out early when the day breaks. I'm going to try to get some sleep now. I don't think I'll be very successful.

**MAX.**

**Author's Note: In an earlier letter, Max said that she knew Fang was traveling west. I meant to say east. Sorry bout that. **** I'm very directionally challenged. ****It's correct in this chapter, anyways.**


	8. If You Could See

Dear Max.

The Internet is a truly handy little tool.

Granted, I don't have Nudge here with me to help hack into international databases. That would be an incredible help, but so far, I'm doing okay on my own. I guess.

It's so much worse than we ever could've imagined, Max. Itex hasn't gone down. There are branches of the School all over the world. Pictures of mutants of all shapes, sizes, and species have leaked online. You know, the ones that Gazzy used to search on Google and show to us, and we would pass it off as some bored teenager's Photoshop job.

_They're real._

It's completely disgusting.

I have a feeling that both the Institute and the School are connected to Itex more than we thought beforehand. It looks like they're trading off these poor kids. Some are viable, some aren't. But by looking at the records that I hacked into, I can see why everybody wanted _us. _We're the only ones that have survived, at least this long. And I'm not really sure why that is. Maybe because we're totally kick-ass and determined, or maybe because we escaped, and we have the will and the opportunity to live now. God knows we've fought hard enough for our lives.

But there have been multiple experiments, trying to recreate _us. _There are probably hundreds of bird kids locked in cages around the world, places where ethical values are somewhere between nil and zip, and the whitecoats can just go to, say, orphanages and snatch up kids to test on.

It's sick. It pisses me off. And I can't sit around when I know what's happening.

We know how those places work. We know, pretty much, the security and the design of those kinds of buildings. Remember that place in New York, where we set free all those kids, the ones with the wings? (Whatever happened to them, anyway? Why weren't we more concerned about that?)

We could set those kids free. We could give them the will and the opportunity to live.

…Well, _I _could _try._

It's worth a shot.

The way I see it, I've ruined a good deal of lives as it is, mutant or otherwise. I've pretty much ruined my own.

I could stand to change somebody else's for the better.

This was the crazy, dodgy plan I mentioned in an earlier letter. I jailbreak some mutants from some Schools or Institutes over here, and form my own kind of flock.

I have leader skills, too, Max. I can make decisions and decide what's best and keep everyone safe.

But if my crazy, dodgy plan works, and I don't die in the process of my rescue missions, I can promise you that the people I save will never, ever replace you guys. I'm trying to give them a chance. I'm trying to let _you _keep yours.

I miss you, Max. Every single day. The dreams haven't stopped. They probably never will.

But, thanks to the vitality of our particular recombinant genes, we have the chance to move on with our lives.

Please try.

**FANG.**


	9. If We Must Move

Fang.

If you must know how we decided to go about finding you, well, it's simple.

Basically, Angel got us into an airport, played eeny-meeny-miney-mo with a flight schedule display, and manipulated her way to six tickets on the first plane to Europe.

And as much as I love, love, love flying, I _loathe _airplanes. Talk about claustrophobia. It's almost as bad as that submarine we were on. Egh. Overly perky flight attendants, screaming babies, and turbulence jerking you around in your seatbelt – not what I call a pleasant experience. Not to mention the guy sitting behind Iggy and I who smelled like B.O. and kept kicking my seat. (I wanted to wring his neck.)

Plus, it just seems wrong to "fly" like that. We have _wings. _We should be out there using them instead of zipping them up in our windbreakers and strapping ourselves into the same seats that the humans do.

But, I digress.

We landed in Wales at about six o' clock. And then…

We sat down and stared at the wall. Because we have no idea where to go from here.

I feel kind of stupid for not having a battle plan beforehand. But you gave me no leads. So I'm guessing here. And it's not like the others are giving me any clues, either. That notorious gut instinct of mine is going into overdrive here.

I wonder if the Voice can give me any suggestions. Even something vague would help. Hint, hint. But he never talks when I want him to.

We're hitting dead-end after dead-end. And hopelessness is rampant. Not just in me, but everybody else, too.

You're really stupid, in case I haven't reminded you enough. You remember how pissed and angry and hurt we were when Iggy left, and he had a _reason. _We were pissed and angry and hurt but also _happy _for him. We were happy that at least one of us had a family, someone to go home to.

You? We have nothing to be happy for. We're just dealing with the "pissed and angry and hurt" part, with the addition of the ever familiar "Gee, hope he's not dead" sensation. Along with, of course, the hopelessness.

Angel keeps bothering me, because she thinks I'm giving up on you too easily. Not hardly. But maybe I'm giving up on myself.

I'm starting to realize, however, that, try as I might, there are some things I just can't prevent. The wings, for example. Iggy's blindness. Angel trying to kill me. Your leaving. The fact that I can't find you.

But, even though I _know _that there's little, if anything I can do, I can't help but kill myself trying to change things. And if I can't, I'll kill myself with the emotions that result from what feels like a failure on my part.

Nudge is curling against my shoulder, pretending to be sleepy, but I know she's just trying to read what I'm writing. They've caught onto the letter thing. And they've pilfered pieces of paper out of my notebook so they can write letters of their own to you. What I've learned from this? Gazzy and Nudge _still _can't spell their ways out of paper bags, and Angel's handwriting is atrocious. Iggy isn't bothering, thankfully. But he did dictate something for me to tell you. Something along the lines of:

"You suck, you asshole. Go eat dirt."  
Sorry bout that. But that's a shared emotion among us. You had to see it coming.

Dylan doesn't have anything to say. I asked. He just shrugged. Which might come as a relief to you. I don't think his feelings about you have changed yet, even though I'm pretty sure my reaction to your leaving, and my continuing attempts to hunt you down should be some indication that I'm still pretty much infatuated with you. And if he hasn't picked up on it yet, he's even stupider than I thought he was in the first place, because everyone else knows.

Nudge just gasped, which means she _was _reading over my shoulder. Little gnat. But she's taken to Dylan, and she actually likes him. While he'll never be what you are to me, he might be moving in on your position as role model slash big brother figure to the younger ones. And I can't stop that.

It's a major sense of déjà vu to be out here. It feels like we're rescuing Angel from the School in California all over again, with the bunkering down in odd places and struggling to find enough food to eat. Thank God Nudge can filch money out of ATMs so we don't have to steal or Dumpster-dive anymore. But the main thing is, I'm not worrying about saving the world anymore. I'm worried about saving _you. _Just like with Angel.

Ya see, I can't function if you guys aren't around. I can't separate myself and concentrate on anything else except how to go about regrouping. Once I have you all under my wing (ha), I can go back to being a spokesgirl for global warming and being environmentally friendly and all of that. Yeah, it's important to conserve energy and love the planet, sure, but it's even more important to _me _to be with _you_.

I swear to God, Nudge, get off of my shoulder and stop "aww"-ing at me. This is supposed to be personal.

We're at a bus stop right now. A freaking bus stop. It's just one method of torture to the next. Airplane to crappy little bus shelter to crappy little bus. I want to fly. I want to just get up in the air and go into hyperdrive and track you down and tackle you and drag you back with me and try to make everything okay again. But no. I have an obligation to my flock, _our flock, _and for them, I'm going to board this stupid public transit that's supposed to be here in five minutes, and I'm going to stick with them _and _try to find you at the same time.

Because I'm the leader.

And even though my followers are diminishing by the minute, that's not changing anytime soon. Not if I have anything to say about it.

**MAX.**


	10. If I Fail

Dear Max.

I'm trying to find a School that is supposedly somewhere south of Tver in Russia. Maybe Russia wasn't the best place to start this birdkid hunt. It is, after all, the largest country in the world.

What am I getting myself into here?

For one thing, I don't speak the language. How am I going to communicate with the kids I'm trying to rescue if they're scared to death of me in the first place, and I can't tell them that I'm the good guy? And what about afterwards, when we're safe? That's, of course, only if I can infiltrate the place by myself. And get out safely, with however many kids who have probably never been out of their cages before.

I don't have a clue what to do. I'm just winging it. Pun intended. (I thought you would like that.)

I wish you here, because there's just something about your presence that makes people feel safe. But, if you were here, I wouldn't be doing this in the first place.

This is all a really big mess, isn't it? And the worst part is, I know it's my fault. But I can't go back. And I'm trying to go forward, but I'm not exactly sure how to do that yet. It's not like I can pull out a cell phone, speed-dial you, and ask your opinion.

I'm thinking, if I can't pull off the rescue from the School (and I don't die in the process), I'll head back to the states. Maybe Florida. I can make a difference without being a hero…right? I don't need to save the world. That's your job. But I can pitch in.

FANG.

**A/N: Sorry for the shortness. I'm uploading the next chapter at the same time, so it's like a combo deal.**


	11. One Voice

Fang.

Nothing much has changed. We're still wandering around. We did leave Wales, and now we're in England. No one feels like being tourist-y like we were before taking down the Itex in Germany.

I don't have anything else to say. So I'm going to paperclip Angel's, Gasser's, and Nudge's letters to this one. I rewrote them all neatly, so you could actually _read _them someday. Really, the originals are pretty much illegible.

**MAX.**

**

* * *

**

Dear Fang:

It's all my fault, isn't it? I'm sorry. I didn't mean for this to happen. If anyone should have left, it should've been me.

I remember the stories you used to read to me. You were my big brother. And I almost got you killed.

Everything's different now. I don't like it. But it's all because of me. I still think you and Max are dangerous together. Not for each other, but for us. I think you needed to pay more attention to me and Iggy and Nudge and Gazzy. But the only thing that distracts Max more from you being here is you being gone. I got my wish, though, didn't I? She's with us all the time now… maybe not in her mind, though.

I'm distracted too. I keep trying to find your thoughts mixed in with everyone else's around here. If we get close enough, I can find you.

You were right. I'm not ready to be a leader yet. But neither are you.

**Love, Angel.**

* * *

Fang

Max is a wreck, and since Iggy can't see, that means I have to be the man around here. (Max is more of a man then me though.)

[Max – *enter eye roll here*]

Total and Akila aren't here, but Dylan is. Oh. I fogot about Dylan. I guess he's the man. But that's not fair, I've been around longer than he has. I'm older!

He doesn't want to find you anways. Angel told me that he thinks he's better for Max. I don't think so. Nudge and Angel like him, but I don't. whenever we add someone new to the flock something bad happens.

We're all just waiting for something bad to happen now, really.

**Gazzy**

* * *

Fang!

Hi Fang! Where are you? We're in England! And it would be really cool to go see the things like Big Ben and Birmingham [Max – she means Buckingham] Palace. But I know that we're on a mission, and that means no sightseeing, or shopping, or stopping to eat at really nice restaurants. Like that place in New York, only we got kicked out of that one, and we actually flew out because they were going to sic security on us otherwise…

But like I said. We're on a mission. And this time, we're not on a boat, or underwater, or being shot at by weird guys on camels (seriously? Camels? You can afford high-tech machine guns, but not a car?). We're trying to find you! Just like last year, with Angel. Only we knew where she was. We don't know where you are.

Remember that time when we went away, just you and me? To D.C., before everyone else was in New York? You said that you didn't like leaving them behind. What if something bad happened?

What changed? What if something bad happens to us now, and you wouldn't even know about it? What if something happens to you? I think that's what Max is most worried about, actually.

I miss D.C. That was fun. Well, as much fun as it could be when we were scouting for information about the guys at the Institute… But it was a lot better than the other time we were all alone, at the cave at Lake Mead when Max got shot and we didn't know if she was hurt or whatever. That was scary.

Well…this is scary too.

I was talking to Iggy last night (well. I talked. He mostly just nodded and grunted, just like you do. Did. I don't know!) And it was weird. I gave him plenty of chances to make the perverted jokes that he likes so much, and he didn't crack one. He just shook his head a lot. And then I gave up and sat next to him and put my head in my hands, and he didn't even pat my shoulder like he used to. He just looked away, like he could see down the street that we were on.

Gazzy's being annoying now. He keeps making the "I VILL NOW DESTROY ZE SNICKUHS BAHR" joke, and it's getting old. Angel's almost as moody as Iggy.

I want to go back to the E-Shaped house in Colorado and pretend not to listen when you read Angel her little-kid stories and fight with Iggy over the remote and listen to Max bossing everyone around again. Wow. Things really _are _bad when I wish Max was bossy again. Now she's just distant.

There's still six of us, even though you're gone. But, as cool as Dylan is, he's not you. So it feels like there's only a piece of the flock. I wish you would come back so we could be a family again. I miss you Fang!

I would write more but I'm running out of paper. So, bye, for now.

**Love, love, love, Nudge.**


	12. Two Halves

Fang.

I know in my last letter, I know I had nothing new to say. But that changed.

Last night, Dylan confronted me. I know. I know. I should've excused myself right then and there, gotten as far away as possible. I didn't want to hear what I knew was coming. But he cornered me; I had no place to go. It was after everyone else was asleep, and he basically told me that this entire thing is stupid, and it's only going to make things worse.

"Max," he said, "Don't you see that you're hurting everyone else, dragging them along through this? Not to mention, you're killing yourself. There's not an end in sight. You have to let him go."

And me, being the weak-willed person I've become…I believed him. And I absolutely broke down.

You know I dislike crying in general. The only thing worse than crying in front of you guys was crying in front of Dylan. But I melted like the bag of M&Ms that Gazzy left out on the patio in Colorado in the middle of August. I couldn't even stand. I sunk down to my knees, bawling like a baby and shaking my head.

"I can't leave him," I remember choking out. "I can't let him go." It's true. Even when I'm old and gray (if I ever make it that far), I'll still be in love with you. Irrevocably, totally, and completely. Even if everything else about me changes, that never will. Pathetic, isn't it? Obviously I have abandonment problems.

You're everything. I don't want to settle for second-best.

You told me to move on. Where the hell am I supposed to go? To Dylan? The one who's actually physically here for me right now, and the one who seems to know everything I'm feeling, which is creepy and sort of comforting at the same time? Or am I supposed to be a spinster for the rest of my life? I'm pretty sure polygamy's not my thing, so it's got to be one or the other.

I can't figure this out for myself. What do you want me to do, Fang? I wish there was some kind of sign. If you're going to waltz back into my life in the near future, I need a sign. If not, I'm going to have to get used to testing the waters for myself. And I'll be disgusted with myself the entire way through.

Every time I look at Dylan, I see you. He hugged me when I was crying, and it felt so wrong. It wasn't the right shape, the right arms, the right boy.

Maybe this is some sick plot designed by some higher-up who plays with the joystick of my life to get me concentrated on saving the world. Sure, I'll be distracted for a while, but eventually I'll give up on both you and love entirely and devote myself wholly to picketing in the streets and being the spokesgirl for environmentally friendly politicians.

Not a pleasant future, actually. It's funny. When I actually had time to sit down and think about my future before all of this happened, every scenario involved you. I was certain that, until the day I died, you would be there. I took it for granted. And now I can't get it back, not any of that. I'll be thirty-five years old when I see you next. My entire youth will be gone. I feel like it's being sucked out of me right now, even. Sure, I might be physically alive, waiting for you at Lake Mead, but I'll be dead in every other sense.

Ugh. What's next? Am I going to start writing freaking _poetry_, too? If I did, it'd probably sound a little something like this:

Today  
It is gray  
And I'm all alone  
Again  
Because life sucks  
And then you die  
The end.

You see? I suck at penning poetry, too. I pretty much just fail at life. I don't blame you for wanting to get rid of me.

…Whoa. OK, so, apparently, we're all moving in on your personality traits. Gazzy got the false sense of leadership, Dylan got the idea that it's okay to tell me what to do, Iggy got the anger, and I got the emo. Great. Peachy. Now instead of dealing with one big black bundle of darkness, it's spreading. Like a disease.

I feel like we should be quarantined.

I honestly feel more lost than ever. Do I give up now, after I've dragged everyone all the way out here? Or do we pretend like if we search harder for longer, we'll find you, and then give up?

Maybe the answers will come by staring at this paper like it's holding secrets from me. It's not like I have anything else to go on.

Thinking of you (always),

**MAX.**


	13. Three Voices

My Max,

I'm sorry it's taken me so long to right. Almost five months. But I was a little…

Preoccupied.

Basically, what that means is I tried to breach security at the School in Russia and failed miserably. Who puts video camera in an _air duct system? _Well, apparently they do, and I got…pretty banged up.

I mean, one of my wings got torn up, because it got caught in a vent when I was running away from beefy whitecoats (think the total opposite of the vegan-tofu-eating California whitecoats. These guys were on steroids, I swear). I basically split my forehead open. Sprained an ankle. You know, typical battle wounds.

And, okay, the bullet wound in my side kind of sucked, too.

Yes, Max, I got shot. And yes, I lost just about as much blood as when Ari sliced my side open with his wolf-claws.

I don't know what I was thinking, trying to take on those giants all by myself. Or, on the other hand, maybe that's exactly why I did. If you guys had been with me, I would've absolutely refused to let you in there. But I had studied maps of the place; I had mapped out my route, knew exactly where I was going and who I was going to try and save.

I was going to start small. Try and grab a little girl with wings. She reminded me of Angel, only a few years younger. Couldn't have been more than four years old. I got a look at her from the vents before the beefcoats nabbed me; she would've been cute if it weren't for the terrified look on her face. She was pressing her hands against the side of her glass box (they upgrade from dog crates in this place, I guess) and at one point I saw her smacking it with all of her strength, like she was trying to break it.

I almost got her.

I was literally in the room, Max. I was trying to think of how to get her out, when I heard a bunch of shouting in Russian, and knew it was time to blow the joint. The little girl gave me this panicked look, but after a second, she just motioned for me to leave, and hurry. So I did.

Of course, they caught up with me, but by that point I was already out in the main field. My wing was already pretty messed up, and blood was running down my face from the cut on my forehead, but I tried to fly anyways. I only made it up to the barbed-wire part of the fence, which was, you know, high enough, but they shot me, and down went Fang.

I blacked out then. Thankfully, it was only for a few minutes. If I had been out for more than that, I would be a goner. As soon as I was awake, I was crashing through a patch of trees and trying to get away. At that point, I was pretty dizzy, but I was trying to stop the bleeding from three different parts of my body.

I made it about a mile before someone snatched me, and at that point, I just let 'im. Just before I blacked out, I heard three really distinct voices. One of them sounded like yours, _exactly_.

…I must've been hallucinating. That's the only explanation. But it was kind of calming.

…There's a lot more to this story. And I'll get to that…sometime. But it's still continuing, right now, as I write this.

I really just wanted to let you know that I'm alive. And I still miss you.

I'll write soon. Really, really soon.

**FANG.**

**

* * *

**

**Author's Note:  
So sorry that I fell off of the face of the planet for a few months. X.X I mainly started this as a way to deal with my extreme irritation with the newest installation of the MR series, and the way FANG ended. But I am starting to like where THIS story is going, and I'll be updating it pretty constantly from now on. Again, sorry for the long hiatus. I'm back. **

**Also, sorry for crappy ending to this chapter. I'M WORKING ON MAX'S RIGHT NOW. The next chapter will be up by this weekend. **


	14. Foursquare

Fang,

I'm slowly picking up the pieces of myself. Huh, funny, remember how that used to be _your _job?

Sorry if I sound bitter. Sorry if I sound dejected. Sorry if I sound totally insincere, because I'm _not _sorry. You deserve it. The way I see it, you have waaaay more apologies to issue to me than vice versa.

Guess where I am right now, Fang? Go ahead, guess.

Well, right this moment, I'm sitting in the little cave at Lake Mead. Yes, that means I gave up. I came home. I lost you.

The kids are all at my mom's house, probably devouring cookies by the box. I wouldn't know. I haven't seen them in four days. Dropped 'em off and ran away like a coward; like YOU. I'm heading back tomorrow, which means this is my last night in the hawk's cave. I keep tracing little circles in the dirt with my finger, trying to figure things out.

Things started falling apart in Europe…well, pretty much right after we got there. We had no game plan, no emotional strength, no physical stamina. My stupid heart, that idiotic troublemaker kept trying to lead the way, kept trying to remember the little hints you might've given me before. You know, little comments about places you might like to visit someday or things you wanted to do. Things that screamed _FANG! _to me, I investigated. Angel was totally unresponsive for weeks; she was trying so hard to find you in her mind. She would get excited a few times, jumping up and down and screaming "I found him! I found him!"

It was a false alarm each time.

So once we completely drained what money we had started with, and the tiniest leads we had to you started to die, and I would get so frustrated that I wanted to punch something, we all sat down – like a pow-wow! – and, through tears, Nudge told me that she and Gazzy and Angel were really tired, tired of looking for you day and night and tired of having nowhere to sleep and no food to eat and tired of being so stuck. They wanted to move on with their lives. "He doesn't want to be found, Max," they said. "He _knows _us. He knows _you. _He knows how to hide from us."

I knew they were right, but I didn't want to give up that easily. Not like you. I wasn't going to give up. Because then, how was I any better than you?

They wore me down. It wasn't hard. I was exhausted, too. So emotionally and mentally exhausted, but I couldn't sleep at nights. I would sit off to the side, thinking. Usually Dylan stayed up, too, just sitting there and watching me think. It was creepy, at first. But you get used to that kind of thing when you're me.

"Max, this can't be healthy," he would coax, trying to get me to give in and sleep, or maybe to just go home. And I would turn away from him. Who cared about health?

It took me about a week and a half to finally decide to go home. Hardest decision ever? I think yes. I felt like melting into a puddle as we boarded an international flight from Germany to New York City, and from NYC to Colorado. I'm pretty sure I was just a gelatinous blob at more than one point in the return trip. No one talked at all. Dylan tried to rest his hand on my shoulder a couple of times, but I shrugged him off; Iggy hadn't taken his earphones out in weeks; Nudge let Angel curl up in her lap and fall asleep, eventually following after her; and Gazzy just stared out the window.

So in the end, you get what you wanted! I'm back where I started, _right back at square one. _It's almost like I didn't come after you, at all. I don't _get _why you even bothered asking me not to – you knew I would. And you knew I would never, ever find you. Haven't we established that telling me_ what not to do _makes me_ want_ to do it_ THAT MUCH MORE?_

Especially if it involves you. And, since you have such a friggin' large impact on so much of my life, well… do the math.

I wonder now, when I'm all alone, staring out at the sky – I wonder why I resisted kissing so much when it started. With you, anyways. Sam was nice. I liked Sam, and I liked Sam kissing me, even if he turned out to be a traitor. Still not sure about him. But the first few times _you_ kissed me, I ran like a scared puppy. And now it's all I want.

It's been a _really _long time since we kissed. Do you think about that? I do. I miss that almost as much as I miss you. But right now, I would settle for fighting. I would settle for glares. I would settle for that stupid way you throw your hands up when you get _really _pissed off, or the way you push right back when I shove you. I would take the time you dislocated my shoulder, because at least you were near me, and that pain is nothing compared to this one.

The pain has dulled to a throb at this point: a very constant, very annoying throb, but much easier to deal with compared to the sharp stinging when you first vanished. I've learned to compartmentalize my darn emotions, keep 'em tucked away while I'm in front of the kiddies until I'm completely alone, when I just let go.

The floor of the cave is pretty much soaked in tears, and it doesn't look much different than the lake it's sitting above right now. Because I _really _let go the past few days. But after this, I'm done. No more crying over you, no more sulking, and no more hunting you down. I'm done. I give up, Fang. I'm not giving up on _you; _I don't think it's possible for me. I'm giving up on the parts of my life that I can't change.

There's a stack of paper tucked away in the back corner of this cave, with a rock acting as a paperweight, and hopefully it won't get torn to shreds or pooped on by the hawks here. Those papers…they're my letters. Just on the off chance you come back sometime _before _the twenty years are up, you'll know.

We're sticking around Colorado for a while, until I can figure out our new game plan, Mission Minus Fang. It's a tentative title, but I think it's catchy. And "Mission" can easily be substituted for "Max." Max minus Fang still equals Max.

I'll still write my letters. Some demented part of my brain still thinks you can read them, and I've learned it's best to keep that part of my brain appeased. The really passionate, kind of sordid ones get tucked away in this cave, so I won't reread them and get pissed all over again. But I will still write.

Love (yes, love, even after this much),

**MAX.**


End file.
